


For the Love of Fuck

by Lasgalendil



Series: Starlight and Song [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Interspecies, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, M/M, One True Pairing, Sindarin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:41:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3086102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elf loves Dwarf.<br/>Dwarf loves Elf.</p><p>…wherein stopping by the woods on a snowy evening proved to be a very productive pursuit indeed. In Lórien, the morning after.</p><p>(And wherein we discover Elves have no understanding of sarcasm.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Love of Fuck

_Alagos, alagos, elegys rhîw_

_Lastannem i-‘awad gwaew_

_Lhewig a lebir ring a gael_

_And aníriel alovig i-nîf, i-lebir, i-thlewig-nîn_

_Adh i-naur-gîn alag Im narthannen_

_Elo! Húriel man i-veleth-vîn edlothiannen!_

_A! Nin gleinio hí, nin hebo him!_

_Sí gegenethriel i-‘irith-vîn velui_

_Tolo, elegys rhîw_

_Nallo, gwaew 'awol_

_A! Go-giritham, melatham, lachatham!_

I wake.

 …Midday. Perhaps tomorrow. Or day after. Or day after that. Not sure. And—if it weren’t for the hair in my mouth and the clothes strewn about—I’d think myself still dreaming or mad.

[But he is here! Still here!]

[Now you must ponder _how_ and _why_.]

[Mahal’s great cock!—how the hell will you explain him to anyone back home?]

I am sore and chafed, and aching, and tired, with only the warmth of naked Elf against me. Ordinarily the thought would make me hard as stone, but even now pressed against him I am limp and lifeless as a gutted fish. Gimli, Glóin’s son, useless with a lover yet beside him! It is a thing unheard of.

 …as is, I suppose, Gimli Glóin’s son with a One.

…or Gimli Glóin’s son—or any of Durin’s sons, for that matter—with an _Elf_.

[Poor bastards. No idea what they’re missing. Pretty Elf. Wonderful Elf. Such sleek, smooth, sweet, fuckable, fuckable, Elf!]

[My Elf. Mine.]

And speaking of things unheard of, what is the bloody, sodding Elf doing now? It’s not that I don’t mind being roused by him (been aroused by him since bloody Rivendell), and in honesty the song (from that sweet, soft mouth!) is not unpleasant, but I can easily think of better things he could be doing with those lips than bloody waking me by singing.

[Like bloody waking me by sucking…]

“Fucking Mahal, Elf,” I ask him gruffly, “what are you doing?”

[Damn you, Gimli Glóin’s son, this is your appointed One, not some unbeaded, unbraided whore or wench on the road. It is the morning after (or is the morning after the morning after or the morning after that?) your first fuck! Be kind!]

“ _Linnon_ ,” he half-sings, half-whispers, pulling my beard around him tighter against the chill.

[Poor hairless creature. How cold it is!]

“Whatever it is, don’t.” In bed, like in life, there must be rules established. Screaming (or crying. I am Dwarf. We are not known to be gentle.) while fucking is acceptable, as is this…this nestling, not altogether unpleasant. Singing afterwards, however, is entirely intolerable. I may be obliged by the laws of our peoples to have him, hold him, and only him for as long as I live, but I’ll be damned if I am to be woken each night (or morning, or midday, whichever day it is) by his incessant Elvish nonsense.

“No singing,” I tell him again. “Did you hear me, Elf? None of your bloody singing. Not now. Not ever. Not in bed.”

But his eyes are distant, his lips upturned, his strange ears flushed. I doubt he even hears me. Who knows where Elves go when—or if they even—dream. Strange thought: Do want. Want badly. Him and silence both. Now. Like this. While he is sleeping. As he sings.

 [Perhaps that will shut him up.]

But I am tired. Sore. Exhausted. Limp as no Dwarf should ever be. No matter.

...There are other ways.

“I am still inside you, you stupid, singing Elf?” I ask, and kiss his hair. “Do you still cry out for me? Is this why you sing?”

He only sings softly to himself, still so far away.

“Is this what you want, Elf?” I take his ear in my teeth, hear his breathing quicken, the hitch in his voice, feel the flash of his throat, the pounding of his heart against me.“Is this what you sing for?” I lick him. With each touch of tongue and teeth the singing stops, if only for a silent second. 

“Do you sing for me?” I run my hands down to his hips and play with him until he hardens beneath my touch, still biting at his ear. “Do you sing for me, Elf?” I ask him. “Do you sing for this?” One hand on him, the other on his arse, he is whimpering now, whimpering, not singing, grinding back against me, fingers clutching mine, toes curled in ecstasy.

“Is this what you want, Elf?” I ask him. “Is this why you sing?” I place my fingers up inside him as words turn to moans and sighs. I press harder, deeper, let my hand be pulled further and further inside as his sighs turn to screams.

“Sing for me, Elf,” I tell him through nipping teeth. “Sing for me, come for me, you pretty Elf. My perfect Elf. Come for me. Come for me. Sing while you sleep.”

He is so young—younger than I have ever been—so eager, so inexperienced, so easy. He comes quickly. Shudders against me, sobs silently, lies still, his fingers laced with mine.

[Asleep. Still asleep. And silent.]

[Thank Mahal! He’s silent.]

I roll him. Bring him closer. Press his face to mine. “Oh, my Elf. My stupid, singing Elf,” I kiss him and caress his pink-flushed ears. “You do not sing so loudly now.”

…But I am wrong. Hardly have the words left my mouth when the singing begins anew.

“For the love of fuck, Elf!” I say. “Must you sing?”

“ _Maer, melethron-nîn,”_ without waking, he kisses me. Softly, chastely, sweetly he kisses me, as if I hadn’t been cock-deep in his arse all night and as if he’d never sucked me sore and as if my seed didn’t still stain his lips and my hands weren’t yet warm with him. “ _Boe linnon. Na i-veleth gonathrad-gîn, boe linnon_.”

...Bloody Elf.

But it is--whatever it is--a compelling argument, not that this Dwarf will ever admit it. And Gimli Glóin's son looks forward to continuing the debate indefinitely, but for now I must sleep.

[And Elf--the Elf--my Elf!--must sing.]

* * *

 Translations:

_"Linnon."_

I sing/I am singing.

_"Maer, melethron-nîn. Boe linnon. Na i-veleth gonathrad-gîn, boe linnon."_

Yes, my lover, I must sing. For the love of your *fucking, I must sing.

 

Storm, storm, storms of winter

We heard the wind’s howl

Ears and fingers cold and pale

Having long wished you licked my face, my fingers, my ears

With your fierce fire I am kindled

Behold! Having begun suddenly how our love has blossomed!

Oh! Hold me now, keep hold of me always!

Now having entangled together our shivering is sweet

Come, winter storms

Cry out, howling wind

Oh! Let us shiver together, let us love, let us burn!

[*Gonathra- (v.; unconjugated stem) “entangle” becomes *gonathrad (v.; gerund) “entangling/entanglement”, poetic euphemism for  "fuck”. Note: in Sindarin, the gerund is the preferred noun form of the verb where in English the infinitive is often used. *Gonathro (v.; infinitive) “to fuck/fuck” vs. *gonathrad (v.; gerund) “fucking/fuck”.]


End file.
